On Your Right Shoulder
by Satari-Raine
Summary: The voices in his head stilled, and the faces in the shards of the mirror, bloodstained, drifted from existence. - Haou


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh! GX or any of the characters depicted in the story. Proper rights are owned by the respected owners individually.

**Note:** I just wanted to write something about what Haou could be thinking as he ruled Dark World. That, and Haou's fun to write?

**_On Your Right Shoulder  
><em>by. Satari-Raine**

* * *

><p>The rain fell, swift and almost silent. The phenomenon was unusual for this dimension, for rain was a rarity, but Haou found himself silently enjoying the weather, the gentle tap of the water almost like a melody. He relaxed in his chambers, seeking silent solace for no one would dare disturb him, unless they desired their souls to be sacrificed, and Haou would gladly do so if the opportunity arose.<p>

Regardless of who it was, it made no difference to him for Super Fusion would take any offering.

Slim fingers drifted over the window sill, the cold stone chilling his skin, before he placed it back in his lap, emotionless gold eyes peering out into the swirling dark clouds of obsidian and a faded purple that was the norm of the sky. No sun ever rose or set and the moon was frozen eternally behind clouds.

Outside, thunder crashed, and lighting struck the land, causing a soft spark against a russet tree limb. His lips twitched upward in a strange movement, almost invisible, as he gripped his hands together over the ebony trousers he wore, matching the silk shirt he wore that was laced with shimmering gold trimming. The spark brightened in the dark, before fading away, its short existence ended. Just like the recent village he had pillaged with his army, the screams of the villagers as silent as the rain as a short-lived as the dead spark. Their souls now belonged to Super Fusion, the goal almost in reach, the pinnacle almost in sight.

Everything faded in this world, but he would reign. He would never fade.

Beforehand, when the time of day was still light, and his armor sill adorned itself over his skin, he had celebrated as he dueled, swiftly ending two more 'duelist's' pathetic attempts to save their own lives as he amused himself in the activity. Yet, however, not even his own celebration of accomplishment could wield off the hidden, silent demons of his heart.

Fingers gripped as a double pair of eyes flashed in his mind, both unnerving in their color of bright grey. The color of the two duelists whose lives he had ended hours ago. The color of a once strong female duelist now deceased and a traitor that still breathes and walks within his world.

_Why would you call him a traitor, he's your—_

The thought, the voice, was silenced, and Haou's grip on the window sill tightened as he returned it to the stone, his hand damp with the relentless droplets of rain. The voice, so akin to his own yet lacked the essence of _him, _Haou_,_ faded away, destined to drift in the edge of his mind, waiting for a chance to reappear again. He blocked it away, no longer interested in that lingering piece of him that screamed of the past, that screamed of the deaths of ones that had fallen to the false king and his twisted goals and games.

The cries of Judai. They cannot affect him now, for Judai was as gone as that gleaming set of emerald that had died first and the colors of eyes that had faded soon after.

He stood up abruptly, hands gripped at his sides as he strode out from his chambers, his crimson cape wrapping around him like a cloak as he swiftly walked by a pair of guards, ignoring their questioning gaze as they held their tongues, knowing better than to question the young male that was their ruthless king.

He knew that the dead cannot come back, for it was impossible, and he wouldn't waste his time believing nonsense of the ill hearted and the weak willed.

Haou nodded curtly, swiftly to a nearby servant as she opens the doors exiting the palace, her webbed blue skin standing out against the cold wood of the enormous entry doors. Her eyes, charcoal black, called out silently as a heed to make sure he would enter no harm.

Charcoal black.

_It's the same as Manjyo-_

He stalked past, the rain hitting against the smooth silk of crimson that shielded him, and he found his steps increasing in their speed as he strode into the night, straight into the storm.

The wind embraced the lithe form, wrapping around him as his clothes shifted in the breeze. Haou stared off into the night as he began his decent up the hill covered in grey rocks and stones, browned grass, and broken slabs of wood. He glanced over his shoulder, his palace distant beyond the fields, and he found himself content within the storm's caress. As he reached the top, his gold eyes glowered down at the vacant, burned ruins of the village that had been sacrificed and pillaged only hours ago. The embers glowed within the rain's fog, and the wood smelt rotten and charred, and it filled his lungs as he leaned against the tree atop the crest of the hill, the only thing untouched by the fires that was Haou and his conquest.

The village hadn't put up a fight, much to his boredom, for with Super Fusion in his possession along with his unmatched abilities; all across the land knew that the endeavor of fighting back would be fruitless and pitiful in the eyes of all who saw. It still didn't mean Haou didn't desire a spark in a set of eyes, ones that dared to fight. Dared to live.

The smoke of the scarce embers drifted into the wind, fading off, and Haou found himself slightly chilled by the wind, his cape now drenched from the downpour, the cold seeping into his skin, but he found himself not caring.

For now, basking in this victory is the pure essence of this moment, and the endless well of moments where he would win – he could never fail in his goal. That's all that matters, vengeance will arrive, and the souls of the dead would rest in peace within the confines of his mind, satisfied with his deeds.

_Why would they, we, approve of this, Judai? It's not righ-_

"Silence."

He denied all doubt and worries, for that is weakness, but only a mere thought of the warm smiles of the gone souls and that infuriating pair of emerald, patient and trusting, haunted him until revenge is the only clear thought alive in his mind.

They were the ones that urged him on, yet they were also the ones he never wanted to think of again.

He sat against the trunk of the tree and as he descended, his right shoulder scrapped against an arrow that had pierced the bark hours before, and he bit back a hiss as blood welled up against his skin.

Rich, crimson red. The same color as that endearing ranking at that world that he – no, only Judai now – was so proud of.

No more. Now he wore the color of blood as his symbol. No more would he remain at the lowest. He – Haou – ruled above all, looked down on all.

As time drifted, the rain lightened up, creating a soft thin blanket of droplets as they danced on the ground's surface, mixing with the charred remains and the stains of crimson blood. He frowned, the pain in his shoulder throbbing as the liquid blended in with his damp cloak, but that is of no importance to him.

Pain means nothing.

Only fame, fear in the hearts of the weak, and utter victory deserve to make up the whole of his being.

And he is Haou, and his desire _will_ be obtained, regardless of all the souls he would have to sacrifice and regardless of the silent cries of the ones deceased, begging him to return back into that weak soul of a person they once called Judai.

There is no reason, no desire to return back. The dead are long gone, so if they can't return, nor would he want them to. It held no purpose, that life of foreign feelings and styles. The days of merely enjoying the time or the soft brushes of skin against his, nor the soft laughter of the one gone that had pierced him the worst can no longer control him under the hypnotizing temptation that he pretends he doesn't feel.

Now, all that can exist in his world is Super Fusion, only in his hand that it would rest, and no one else in the twelve dimensions could ever hope to possess.

No more Asuka, Manjyome, Shou, Kenzan, or whoever else was as dead as the village before him. The ones where their fate is unknown even to Haou is of no importance; they will all fall at his hands, regardless.

Judai would never exist, nor had he ever been before Haou's time.

Johan is no more, and regardless of the emerald stains in his mind, he made himself believe he is content with this. He wouldn't – couldn't – except anything else.

Haou stood, his head light with the blood slipping from his body, and as he focused, he found the rain stinging it with an almost acid-like response. He cannot find himself to care about it other than to be annoyed as he trekked back to his palace. That woman is there, standing in front of the gate, her webbed blue skin drenched in the rain. He nodded again, and she opened the door, eyeing the injury hidden poorly by the silk of his robe and cloak. One look and she darted her eyes away, determined to remain alive and to not anger the boy-king.

He arrived at the stairs, and stepped upon the first step, his metal boots loud against the marble stone, and his mind echoed with the sound. His shoulder brushed against the cold stone, his ripped shirt exposing skin to the wall, and he grit his teeth as he yanked himself away, proceeding up the stairs, ignoring the musky smell of blood and iron emitting from his skin.

Haou reached his room, his door opened as a guard bows deep to him, armor clinking in the movement, and again the voice is silent, not daring to go against the cold gaze of the king. He only can remain to stand tall as the door shuts, prepared to protect the ruler of the world most would associate as hell beyond the palace walls.

Once the door was locked, Haou rips his shirt off from his damp form, the fabric sticky against his pale skin against his struggled. He threw it harshly, discarding it in a random direction and proceeded to his mirror, crafted from the finest glass and surrounded by the smoothest wood. His reflection stared, that same gold that could cast fear with a single glance, and his eyes trailed to the wound. Blood had stained the skin, rivets drifting down his body, creating an image that made Haou blink in disbelief.

The blood of the one who had the world on a string, ready to snap at his command of control.

The blood that had once-no, never belonged to the being of Judai who would've spilt the crimson liquid for any one of his friends that had held his soul.

The blood that had boiled with only a glance by that endearing set of shining green, and raced within his veins at the slightest clasping of palms.

Haou's jaw clenched as his hand rose up to palm the wound, and he gripped it tight as his fist slammed against the glass and wood, the faces, _their faces_ no longer able to stare at him through that infuriating piece of furniture that now lay at his feet, cracked and splintered into uncountable pieces, coupled with the blood slipping from his knuckles.

No more.

Weakness. He could not allow it within his mind, and since it drifted within his eyesight, he knew he had to seek solace again, to avoid the calls of the past and the hidden weakness that he despised and denied.

No more.

Somewhere deep in a place inside himself he refuses to think he hears that voice, Judai, calling out.

_You know, they still care—_

"No more!" Haou whispered, sitting upon the silk sheets of his bed as he gripped his shoulder, his jaw clenched to the point of utter pain. His body pulsed and throbbed, seeming like a song that opened up the forbidden melodies of his mind and soul, causing it to flood over in his conscious. He lied down, fingers shaking with the intensity of his hold, and he yanked it away, glancing at his palm stained in crimson.

Refusing to focus on the melody of hell echoing in his mind, he traveled off to think of tomorrow, where Super Fusion will once again increase in its power and strength, and where the name of Haou would leave the lips of the damned. One step closer and maybe he could find peace without the calls in his mind that no other soul had known he thought about. His eyes, gold and dim, darted out to glance outside the window as he rested on his left side. The rain had stopped, but the smell remained, potent in the air. The loss of blood made his head throb, his body seeming to fall even though he remained on the sheets. He hissed, burrowing around the silk cloth as the room seemed to move around him.

His eyes shut, and his mind blanked off into unconsciousness. The voices in his head stilled, and the faces in the shards of the mirror, bloodstained, drifted from existence.

Haou slept.

The night again soon drifted into day, and as he sat himself up, his body numb, he glanced off into a new mirror that had been replaced. He walked over slowly, his steps smacking against the silk marble, the slapping sound loud in the quiet room. Reaching the glass, he peered into it. He looked the same as normal. His skin was pale and dry, and his eyes cold with intent and drive. No blood soaked his skin, and his hands were still at his side as he turned, satisfied, and went off to prepare for the next raid.

All that had remained was the wound, that simple slice of broken puckered skin, on Haou's right shoulder.

* * *

><p><em>Comments and critique are always welcomed.<em>


End file.
